


Blow Your House Down

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injured!Sam, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's busted up his ankle and they're out of codeine and what does Dean plan to do about that, exactly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blow Your House Down

I don't believe him at first, convinced he's yanking my chain, but then I see his face.

"How the fuck are we out of codeine?" I bark.

He scowls at me, hanging in the bathroom doorway. "Well, I guess we used it all up, Einstein."

"But-but-" I say, gritting my teeth and willing myself not to look at my swollen purple fuck of an ankle. The Grimace at the end of my leg. "Damn it, Dean, it hurts!" And now I'm whining which is just awesome, but I can't help it. The fucker is stinging like a bitch and I swear it's melting the damn bag of ice that I just got up the guts to drop on it.

He rolls his eyes and flips off the bathroom light. "Come on, princess. It's not the first time you've broken your ankle."

"It's not broken!" I snap. "It's a bad sprain."

"Pfft," he scoffs. "Whatever."

He settles next me on the couch and manhandles my foot into his lap. Plucks the ice bag away and drops his fingers over the bone. Pushes. He's gentle, but still. Ow.

I must make a face because he laughs, low in his chest. "Yeah, yeah," he says, still stroking my skin. "Such a freaking baby, Sammy."

"Whatever," I grumble. "Fuck you and your 'why don't you go first' bullshit. Why yes, Dean. I'd love to get clocked by a goddamn poltergeist with a Nancy Kerrigan fetish!"

"Nah," Dean says. "Kerrigan got whacked in the knee, dude." He slips his hand a little higher, like I might be unclear as to the definition of "knee."

"Since when are you an ice skating expert?" I scoff, swatting at his hand. "You hate that shit."

He doesn't say anything. Just keeps running his fingers up and down my leg. Leans into me. Pressure and soft and Dean. It's not awful. Kinda nice, actually. Takes my nerve cells' attention away from my damn ankle, at least.

I look up and he's staring at me. Smiling.

"Who said I hate it?" he says, his voice slow and lazy. Almost like he's sleepy. Or like he's gargled a bottle of syrup. Runny and thick and sweet.

My face gets hot. I don't know why. It's just Dean. Big stupid Dean and his blunt hand, his fingernails smooth across my knee. Scraping.

"Dude," I say, trying to bluster. "My knee's fine."

"Uh huh," he says with this giant Tigger grin. "I know." He drops his voice, like it's supposed to be sexy or something. "Rest of you's ok, too."

I roll my eyes. Try to ignore the kick in my heart, when he says that.

"Yeah, ok, whatever," I huff. I puff.

But he sees right through me, his eyes cutting right through the straw.

He lifts his hand to my head in what seems like slow motion. Turns my face to his and leans in.

"Yeah," he breathes, and wow. I'd forgotten what it feels like, to be close to him like this. "You're all right, Sammy."

I keep my eyes open until our mouths meet, until I'm sure this is actually happening, again, and it's not some terrible cocktease of a dream.

But no: the soft stroke of his tongue? Real. The sigh in his chest that rattles under my palm? Yup. The curve of his lips as I open my mouth and kiss him right the fuck back? All true.

We go back and forth for awhile, him leading, then me. Following each other in turn. He scrapes his teeth over my lips until I groan. I suck low and dirty on his tongue until he shivers. We trade moans, or maybe it's just one, this long dragon of sound that coils up between us. And even though we're sort of twisted on the couch and my ankle is still screaming and I could have sworn we promised never to do this again, it is freaking amazing.

Last time, we were trashed. Last time, it happened so fast that it took me awhile to catch up, to like fully comprehend what was going on. Last time was supposed to be just that. It. The end. No more.

But I guess I wasn't the only one who thought that plan sucked.

He spider-monkeys his hand under my shirt and runs his nails over my stomach, my side, as much of my skin as he can, but it's not enough. The rest of me is yelling, feels freaking cheated that he can't stretch me out on the bed, work his mouth down my spine and over, wrap my legs around his waist and sink into me, fuck me all the way down, like last time, and I kind of choke, thinking about that.

It gets his attention, that sound, and he leans back. Worried.

"Sam," he says. "What is-?"

And I don't let him finish because I want him, don't want a lecture or some soppy-ass concern over my goddamn wellbeing, just want him. _Now_.

I snag his hand and push it into my crotch, lift up into his touch. Meet his eyes.

Can't speak. Don't have to.

He grins again, this wicked fiery thing that makes him look like a fucking shark, like I'm a stupid dolphin that's just blundered into his path and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Can't look. Don't have to.

He laughs, his hand cupping my cock. I swear I can feel his pulse through the fabric, trucking along at lightspeed.

"S'ok," he says in my ear. "I gotcha. I gotcha, Sammy."

"No kidding," I grate, the words like needles through my teeth.

He laughs again, low and incredibly self-satisfied. Jerk.

He's moving before it registers, sliding out from under my leg and onto the floor. Leans against my other knee, the one that's bent. I can't look, can't see, but I can feel his palm on my leg. Warm. Almost reassuring.

He runs his fingers over the inside of my thigh, under my boxers and in, creeping until my breath hitches, until he's almost right the fuck there please god and I kick my hips up, try to make him keep going--but he stops. Just rests his hand for a minute and my whole body, all of its daily operations, are focused on him, on the part of me he's scalding with his touch. Soothing.

I make a noise, something that might be his name, maybe, and he purrs, pets me like I've just done a trick for him, leapt through a fucking hoop at his command, but before I can get pissed he's pulled me out. Slipped my cock into the open and he stops teasing, stops going slow.

Thank god.

I bunch my eyes even tighter and reach for him, get a hand in his hair and lock him the fuck down. Listen to his mouth, wet and messy and loud, so fucking loud, like he doesn't want to waste another second. His tongue like a goddamn poker, hot and hard and I swear the thing's gonna go right through my cock, just as soon as it stops curving around the head and tugging, god, like the most incredible pull right into the gravity well that lives between his lips. He's groaning, too, the sounds vibrating in his fingers knotted around my shaft, oh, Dean, I'm gonna-

He lifts his head and I whimper, the ragged needy sound that he's somehow found, and he says: "Sammy. Look at me."

My eyes open just because he said and what better reason is there? and he's sharking up at me, the bastard, showing me all his fucking teeth as he jerks me off and he says: "Come, Sammy. Come. Right now, baby. Come on."

And I lose it, fall all over his hand his face his chest, feel the heat fall away, too, and shudder, god, my hips working even after I'm done, I'm so fucking done, but seeing him almost triumphant, my come all over the place, sliding off of his beautiful face, it makes me want to keep it going, to trap him between my legs-one good, one busted-and keep him all to myself, everybody else in the world be damned.

I open my mouth to say this, or try to, but it comes out like a yawn, for some reason.

He pats my knee and stands up, knocks the wet from his face with his sleeve, and goes for the bed.

I let my eyes fall where they may and when I open them again, he's lifting my other leg onto the couch. Tugging my shoulders down and shoving a pillow under my head. Replaces the ice bag, it feels like, and drapes a blanket over me, the whole mess.

It's warm. Soft against my skin. Nice.

He kisses me. Strokes my cheek and taps me on the forehead.

"Good night, sunshine," he says, somewhere.

Can't speak. Don't need to.

Night, Dean.

**

In the morning, I wake up with the bottle of codeine on my chest and a note that says:

_What do you know?_

I throw the thing at his head when he stumbles out of the shower and he laughs. Plucks it from the air and tosses it right back. Struts over with this wolfish smile.

"My way's better," he smirks, finger tracing my lips. "But probably more addicting."

"Yeah," I say, reaching for his towel. "Probably."


End file.
